


Quoth The Raven

by tealrewts



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gore, not really shippy just kind of gore w limited plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealrewts/pseuds/tealrewts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You were 6 years old when your brother died.</p><p>It didn't come as a huge surprise to you. He was a junkie, he didn't take care of himself to well. Spent all of his money on booze and drugs.</p><p>So they sent you to a foster home. You were too young to object, and the social worker who drove you to the house kept saying that socializing with other kids would be good for you, that your foster parents were nice people who could provide you with a more "stable environment" than your father did.</p><p>Boy were they fucking wrong.</p><p>(pretty gorey treat lightly)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Quoth The Raven

**Author's Note:**

> You were 6 years old when your brother died.
> 
> It didn't come as a huge surprise to you. He was a junkie, he didn't take care of himself to well. Spent all of his money on booze and drugs.
> 
> So they sent you to a foster home. You were too young to object, and the social worker who drove you to the house kept saying that socializing with other kids would be good for you, that your foster parents were nice people who could provide you with a more "stable environment" than your father did.
> 
> Boy were they fucking wrong.
> 
> (pretty gorey treat lightly)

You were 6 years old when your brother died.

It didn't come as a huge surprise to you. He was a junkie, he didn't take care of himself to well. Spent all of his money on booze and drugs.

Of course you were still sad.

He was your only family. A shitty excuse for one, but he was yours.

You hated the look in the police man's eyes when you told him that.

So they sent you to a foster home. You were too young to object, and the social worker who drove you to the house kept saying that socializing with other kids would be good for you, that your foster parents were nice people who could provide you with a more "stable environment" than your father did.

Boy were they fucking wrong.

The social worker went by Mrs. Redglare. She was nice enough, wore a gaudy teal and red business suit, said nice things to you, attempting to appear as she cared.

Maybe she did care. Not that it mattered anymore.

"So, are you excited to meet your new parents?" she said, looking at you in the rear view mirror. There was that big, possibly fake smile that never seemed to leave her face.

You never responded. You weren't too fond of talking. If no one was there to listen, what was the point anyway?

She looked back at the road. You could swear that he smile faltered a little.

She pulled her navy blue minivan into the driveway of your foster parent's house. The house was a quaint, green, one story house with a nice white picket fence. The yard was filled with yellowing grass, and seemed... neglected.

Something was off.

Mrs. Redglare opened your car door and helped you out onto the cement. She walked briskly up to the porch, and knocked once on the front door. It was immediately opened by a tall man with white hair. He was wearing an all white suit with a green tie. He had a smile on his face, but unlike Redglare's it felt cold. Out of place. Forced, even.

"Welcome! Come in please. You can call me Doctor."

 

! The scratch family seemed nice enough. A man and his wife, who was "on a vacation at the time, but she's doing very well, thank you very much".

The papers were easy enough to draw up. You had no familial ties, no one to complain that you were gone.

In hindsight, you were the perfect subject.

Mrs. Redglare seemed confident in Doctor Scratch's references, but she was still extremely strict with the legal work. Everything checked out in the end, and she left, giving you an extremely awkward hug and the Doctor a handshake.

And then you were alone.

"Well, David. I suspect we'll become good friends, yes?" he said, walking over to the small bar that was set up in the corner of the living room. "I am an excellent father, after all."

You remember feeling a slight chill run down your spine at the word "father".

 

You were 6 and a half years old when you met Jade Harley.

She was exactly your age. She had long, dark brown hair, bright green eyes, and the warmest, most real smile you'd ever seen.

You were in love with her.

Sure, you were only a kid. You could barely read, and you still cried to get what you wanted, but you were in love with her.

And she loved you back.

Your relationship with Jade wasn't romantic. The two of you just understood each other.

She had lived with her grandfather until she was 4, when she'd shot him with one of his rifles.

She didn't do it on purpose. She could barely remember what happened, but every time she tried to tell you she'd burst into a fit of sobs and "it was all my fault" and "i'm a meanie"s.

But she made you feel safe. Like you didn't have to be afraid.

Jade was the only person that you talked to.

There were others. When you'd first arrived at the Scratch home, there had been about 20, maybe 30 kids.

Now, half a year later, there were 10.

 

You were 7 years old when it happened.

You and Jade had been playing a game called "house" in t! he garden. She was the mother, you were the father, and you would pretend that you were married.

And you would pretend that you were normal.

"Dave," you remember her saying, "do you think we'll ever leave this house?"

"Yeah. I think Doc ain't able ta keep us when we're old, so prolly we could leave when we're 18 or somethin'." you said, shrugging and looking at the ground.

She giggled and smiled at you, taking your hand in hers. "Davey, do you think we could get married? And be a real family, not like this one."

You felt your heart stop. You took an a pause that lasted too long for your liking, and then said, "Yeah. I do."

Jade had leaned in to kiss you on the cheek, giggling happily.

"Kids, come inside. I have something I want to show you."

 

You don't remember too much of the mutation. At least, that's what you tell the anyone who asks.

You remember being dragged into a dark basement, you remember Jade crying, you remember the smell of something rotting.

You remember the carcasses of children everywhere, children who had been mangled, one with crab claws, one with horns, and you remember vomiting all over your chest, remembered the fur and feathers everywhere, the flesh draping the walls. 

You remember seeing Nepeta, a girl you used to know, cat ears sewn onto her head, whiskers brutally stabbed into her cheeks, her eyes plucked out and replaced with diamond pupils, her hands cut off and the beginnings of what seemed to be a "paw transfer", but by the looks of it, she hadn't made it that far through the process.

You remember the way that Jade had screamed your name as she was dragged into a different room.

You remember Doc saying things like, "You're unusually strong, boy" and "I've been looking forward to this all year."

You remember the sound of a chainsaw, the feeling of hard, sharp chains ripping through your bones and flesh. You remember hearing your own screams, feeling your shoulders crack and shift under the hand of the doctor above you. You remember him laughing, whispering how good at this you were. 

You remember everything going black.

When you woke up, you felt an excruciating pain in your shoulder blades, nose, and arms. You stumbled, looking around, looked down at your hands, and you saw claws, no, talons, like a bird. You found a small, fragile body shaking in the corner.

"Jade?" you called, tripping, feeling your legs crack underneath you in searing pain, looking down, seeing giant crows feet where your legs should be. You moaned loudly, crawling to help her.

She was covered in blood, on all fours. Her body was mangled, her teeth all over the ground, replaced by fangs, her scalp ripped to shreds and covered with dog ears. The dog you two had played with a day before. She had a tail sewn into her back, and a rip down her spine. She was losing blood fast. She wouldn't make it.

Neither would you.

"Dave," you remember her saying in a broken, dying voice, "Please save me. I'm scared Dave."

You remember holding her as she cried, not caring how painful it was.

You remember her sounds diminishing as she died.

You don't remember much else.


End file.
